With a long ride ahead of them, it was time he learned more.

Rachel spoke while staring out into the storm. “Malachy died sometime in the middle of the twelfth century. He expired in the arms of his best friend, Saint Bernard of Clairvaux.”

Kowalski twisted his head. “Saint Bernard? Didn’t he invent those slobbering mountain dogs?”

Rachel ignored him. “Malachy was buried in an abbey that Bernard founded, the Abbey of Clairvaux. It’s about a hundred and fifty miles outside of Paris. Most of the abbey was destroyed in the nineteenth century, but a few buildings and walls still exist, including its main cloister. But there’s a small problem.”

From the way she said it, Gray knew the problem was not small.

“What?”

“I tried to tell you before…” She went suddenly sheepish, as if she thought she should have pressed him harder earlier. But like Gray, she’d also had a lot on her mind.

“It’s all right,” he said. “What is it?”

“The ruins are protected. They may be the best-guarded buildings in all of France.”

“Why’s that?”

“The Abbey of Clairvaux…it lies at the heart of a maximum-security prison.”

Gray swung around in his seat to look her full in the face. She had to be joking. From the stern and worried look on her face, she wasn’t.

“Great. So now we’re breaking into a prison and a tomb.” Kowalski sank down and crossed his arms. “Nothing could possibly go wrong with that plan.”

26

October 13, 8:18 P.M.

Svalbard, Norway

Krista paced the length of the ice-cold warehouse on the outskirts of Longyearbyen. Crates were stacked to the rafters. The place smelled of oil and coal. She wore a thick sweater to cover the bandages on her arm. A morphine haze clouded the edges of her thoughts. Other men were in worse shape. Two bodies on the warehouse floor were covered over by tarps.

Only eight men left.

She held the phone to her ear, waiting for instructions. She had dialed the number he had left. It rang and rang. Finally, the line was picked up.

“I’ve been briefed,” the man said.

“Yes, sir.” Krista struggled to hear any indication of the man’s mood, but his words were calm and precise, unhurried.

“With the turn of events, we’re radically altering our objectives for this mission. With Karlsen now in Sigma’s hands, the decision is to abort all operations in Norway.”

“And what about in the UK?”

“We took a chance on co-opting those outside resources to assist us in finding the key. After the current turn of events, we no longer have that luxury. We must gather our chips and leave the table for now.”

“Sir?”

“The article stolen by Father Giovanni. Secure it.”

“And the others?”

“Kill them all.”

“But what about our—?”

“All have been deemed a liability, Ms. Magnussen. Make sure the same isn’t said about you.”

Krista’s throat tightened into a hard knot.

“You have your orders.”

FOURTH

THE DARK MADONNA

27

October 14, 5:18 A.M.

Airborne over the Norwegian Sea

Painter watched the Svalbard Archipelago vanish behind them as the private jet sailed south over the Arctic Sea. They’d lost half a day evacuating the group trapped in the seed vault. Afterward, it took some fancy footwork by Kat in Washington to get them off the island before the media storm struck.

The dramatic bombing had drawn the world’s eye. Already a flurry of international news crews and NATO investigators were converging on the tiny archipelago. The remoteness of the place and the fierce storm had allowed Painter just enough time to slip away.

But he didn’t come alone.

Monk and Creed were sprawled over the cabin’s couch. Senator Gorman sat dead-eyed in one of the chairs. Their final passenger sat across from Painter.

Ivar Karlsen accompanied them voluntarily. He could have made it difficult, if not impossible, to extract him from Norwegian territory. But the man had an odd sense of honor. Even now he sat straight in the chair, staring out the window as the islands disappeared. It was clear that he most likely had been the primary target of the bombing at Svalbard, that his former ally had turned into his enemy.

He also knew to whom he owed his life and respected that debt.

Painter meant to take full advantage of that cooperation.

The small jet lurched in the unstable air, thickening the tension in the cabin. They were headed to London. Neither Painter nor Kat had heard from Gray’s team. He wanted to be on the ground in England as the search continued in the Lake District. Depending on what was found, they would refuel and continue to Washington.

But during this five-hour flight, Painter needed to wring this man dry of all he knew. Kat was investigating the sites of the seed-production fields that had been harvested throughout the Midwest. The news was grim: she’d already found multiple cases of unexplained deaths near fifteen test farms. A postmortem on one body had revealed an unknown fungal agent. And there were sixty-three more test fields still to check.

Karlsen spoke, sensing Painter’s attention. “I only wanted to save the world.”

Senator Gorman stirred, his eyes sparking with anger, but Painter gave the senator a hard glance. This was his interview.

Staring out the window, Karlsen failed to note the silent communication. “People talk about the population bomb, but they won’t admit it’s already gone off. The world population is racing toward a critical mass, where population outstrips food supplies. We are only a heartbeat away from global famine, war, and chaos. The food riots in Haiti, Indonesia, Africa, they’re just the beginning.”

Karlsen turned from the window to face Painter. “But that doesn’t mean it’s too late. If enough like-minded and determined people coordinated their efforts, something could be done.”

“And you found those people in the Club of Rome,” Painter said.

Karlsen’s eyes widened ever so slightly. “That’s right. The club keeps raising the alarm, but it falls on deaf ears. More trendy crises consume media attention. Global warming, oil supplies, the rain forests. The list grows. But the root of all of the problems is the same: too many people packed into too little space. Yet no one addresses that problem directly. What do you Americans call it? Politically incorrect, yes? It’s untouchable, tangled in religion, politics, race, and economics. Be fruitful and multiply, says the Bible. No one dares speak otherwise. To address it is political suicide. Offer solutions and they accuse you of eugenics. Someone has to take a stand, to make the hard choices—and not just with words but with concrete actions.”

Tags: James Rollins Sigma Force Thriller
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